Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  “Yeah. Sorry,” Tango said casually smirking. “It’s what we call places with a concentrated nephilim population. Typically, they’re smaller pockets within towns or cities. Places where the Conscious tend to set down some roots and colonize. Or — in the case of Phoenix, Arizona — it’s pretty much the whole damn place. Nevertheless, it’s pretty rare to see a town like this — where everyone’s Blind.”

  “Got it,” I muttered somewhat following the plot. “And by ‘Blind’ you mean they don’t realize they’re nephers.”

  “Durn skippy,” said Cooper. “Blind as a Texas salamander on a sunny day.”

  “Right,” I muttered making the bold assumption that whatever Coop just said was Redneck for ‘Yes.’ “And, out of pure curiosity — why hasn’t anyone told them that they’re not quite human?”

  “They have broken no Rules nor have displayed any inclination to gaining Consciousness of their condition, Deacon Robinson. Per our covenants, we simply allow them to continue with their existence unhindered.” Answered Skyphos.

  “Ok,” grumbled Rooster impatiently. “So we have a whole town of Blind nephers who have an affinity for Eighties hair, a proud history of mining salt, and are otherwise seemingly harmless. Let’s move on.”

  “Yep,” said Tango, snapping back into mission mode. “To that point, Stoner and his crew have established a five mile perimeter around the target, watching for any indication of portals, veils, or wards. So we’re pretty confident that between our boots on the ground and the magi dragnet we’ll be able to pick up any Maradim attempts to infiltrate the area of operations.”

  “Well done,” said Rooster quickly analyzing the floating map displaying the tactical grid around the hemlock tree. Giving me a stern look, he added, “Now all we need is a plan.”

  “We don’t have a plan?” Asked Caveman raising a bushy eyebrow. “Then what went down at Raven Spire, bro?”

  As Rooster and I took turns exchanging the details of what was discussed at the Gathering, the crew stood in perfect silence taking in the unfiltered report on the compromised state of the Guild and the believed strength of the Maradim. Although they asked no questions, the solemn looks made it pretty clear that the dire magnitude of our current situation was more than well understood.

  Completing the brief, Rooster said, “So, we’re in a holding pattern until Big A gets back. I suggest we all try and grab a couple hours of sleep.”

  Looking like he was about to pass out from exhaustion, Tango emptied what appeared to be his fourth or fifth can of Redbull and muttered, “I’ll take the first shift. Any change to the situation — I’ll send word.”

  “Not a chance, pard,” said Coop assuming position at the captain’s chair behind the wooden desk. “You look like death on a cracker. I’ve hung buck heads on my wall with more life in ‘em than you. I’ll take the first shift. Anything happens — I’ll holler. Y’all get some shut eye.”

  “Let’s go, Tiberious,” I said giving Tango a slap on the back. “I’ve never seen a stuffed deer with pastel pants and cute hair, but Coop has a point. You look like three bags of shit.”

  “Back in three hours,” Rooster said to the group. Turning to Coop, he muttered, “If Big A shows up in the meantime —”

  “I’ll let Y’all know — Count on it. Now, go on. Git.”

  Breaking free from the crowd and making the short trek to my humble room within the bowels of the Quartermaster, I felt the adrenaline rush of the past eighteen hours quickly fade, and was instantly overcome with total mental and physical exhaustion. I barely managed to get my peacoat off before the primal need for sleep took over, and I collapsed onto the small bed. Although my mind was still a maelstrom of confusion and anxious thought, I fell into a deep slumber as quickly as my head hit the pillow. Right before everything went completely blank, the question ‘How did it come to this?’ repeated in my head like a broken record.

  And then something rather unexpected happened. Somebody answered me.

  “Destiny,” said a familiar voice. “If you believe in such things.”

  Opening my eyes to find myself atop the familiar green hillside staring into the majestic mountain range on the far horizon, I said, “What if I don’t?”

  “I’m afraid it matters not, Dean. Even someone as strong willed as you cannot change that which is destined to be.”

  Barefoot and dressed in a linen tunic, I turned to my right to find Stephen clad in similar attire and gazing mournfully into the perfect blue sky.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  “Yes,” he replied without averting his eyes from the horizon.

  “So you’ve reverted to high jacking my dreams again, eh? Thought we’d cleared that particular hurdle.”

  “You can’t beat the classics,” he casually said matching my snideness.

  “Touché.”

  “At the moment, it’s the safest way for us to communicate,” he said slowly turning his head to look at me. “And we have much to discuss.”

  “Ok. Let’s start with why you’re lying to everyone about the fallen Deacons. They’re not dead.”

  “No — they are not,” he replied with no hint of emotion. “And I have chosen to conceal that fact from our brethren.”

  “And you think Azazel has them locked up somewhere in that shadow realm, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “And it’s your intention to leave them there when we take the place down, isn’t it? To abandon them — to let them die.”

  “It is,” he said definitively.

  “Well, we can’t frigg’n do that!” I barked as the memory of Smitty’s paralyzed gaze sent a surge of anger through me. “Don’t you want to save them?”

  “A fair question,” he said shifting his gaze to the mountainside. “What I want — what any of us want — is irrelevant. Our responsibility is to the Balance — to the preservation of mankind. Nothing can deter us from that objective. It is our charge. Our purpose. And if my suspicions are correct, we are already too late to help them. A timely end to their torturous state of existence will be a welcomed mercy.”

  “I don’t get it,” I grumbled.

  “I do not believe they are simply imprisoned, Dean. I believe they are being systematically stripped of their mantle. The Father’s Wrath ripped from the very fiber of their souls to which it was joined by His very hand.”

  “What?” I scoffed. “How is that even possible?”

  “I cannot be sure,” he replied starting to slowly pace along the hilltop and shaking his head. “But the fact you witnessed our brothers encased in holy flame was my first clue. The ability to summon such power is only held by two types of beings. The Father himself —”

  “And the archangels,” I said completing his sentence.

  “Correct,” he muttered giving me a sage glance. “In simplistic terms, the holy flame is an angel trap. Created for the express purpose of removing the grace of a rogue angel when they’ve fallen to the darkness.”

  “So you think one of the archangels is using holy flame to strip Deacons of their Wrath?”

  “That is my theory,” he replied as the stoic mask returned to his face. “A theory that Gabriel does not share. Such an act of treason would shake the very foundations of the seraphic court and divide the Heavens in the process.”

  “So the traitor’s an archangel,” I muttered.

  “Or someone very close to their ranks. The truth of the matter continues to elude me.”

  “You said the holy flame was your first clue. What was the second?”

  “The mantle of power bestowed upon each Deacon represents an equal share of the Father’s Wrath. A divine energy that freely shifts between our ranks based on the active number of Deacons. Hence when a Deacon’s term has ended or they perish — their mantle is returned to the collective source.”

  “But that hasn’t happened — because they’re still alive,” I muttered.

  “Yes,” he said frowning. “Or at least being kept alive in some f
orm of sedated stasis. In Azazel’s ‘collection’ as you witnessed in your vision.”

  “So, their mantles are not just being stripped from them,” I said connecting the dots. “They’re being stolen.”

  “Stolen,” he said rhetorically with his frown deepening. “For what purpose? That is the question.”

  Dialing back an earlier conversation, I said, “But you said it yourself — the Wrath will turn upon itself before serving the enemies of Heaven.”

  “The Wrath is restrained by the free will of the Deacon,” he said dryly. “And when that control is compromised. What then?”

  When I offered nothing but an empty look in response, he said, “And now you understand my position.” He sighed. “This is a sacrifice each and every one of them would gladly make for the sake of mankind.”

  Closing the distance between us, he gently put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Our time is short, Dean. It is very likely that Azazel and his traitorous ally have already harvested the power of twenty four Deacons. By your own account — there is but one vacancy left in his prison. Should one more of our brothers fall before we destroy the shadow realm — the scale will forever be tipped in favor of the darkness. The very Wrath of the Deacons will be turned upon us. Should that happen,” he lowered his hands from my shoulders, “I cannot begin to fathom the consequence. The world will not be enough. This — must be done.”

  Three stout knocks on my door instantly snapped me from the dream state and back to the present moment. Instinctively looking at the clock hanging on the wall, I took note that it was nearly ten-thirty in the morning. I’d been asleep for almost three hours.

  “Pardon me, Deacon Robinson,” a young voice called from the hallway. “The archdeacon has returned. He requests your presence in the Reliquary as soon as possible.”

  “On my way,” I grumbled, already on my feet and putting on a fresh RoosterBragh tee-shirt from the stack on the bureau. Someone had also taken the liberty of dropping off a pair of black tactical fatigues, which I happily threw on as well. Throwing the peacoat over my shoulder and heading out the door, I muttered under my breath, “There’d better be some frigg’n scones waiting for me.”

  Chapter 30

  “Gather round, lads,” said Abernethy with a fiery edge as the usual suspects gathered on the command bridge amidst the hive of activity occurring on the Reliquary floor below. “Time is against us so I’m going make this brief. We have much to do in the way of preparation.”

  Waving his hand in the air, a virtual tactical map appeared and hovered to our front. Upon closer inspection, it depicted the location to the portal entrance in Liverpool and a detailed rendition of the surrounding area. Facing the group, Big A said, “Let’s start with what we know. According to the blethering shapeshifter occupying a cell in Ward Nine, the Maradim will activate the portal precisely at five minutes after midnight on Friday.” Pausing to glance at the countdown timer, he added, “Thirty-one hours from now.”

  Leaning closer to Rooster, I whispered, “Is he talking about Skip?”

  “Aye,” Rooster smugly replied thoroughly enjoying the fact I still couldn’t understand a damn thing Abernethy said.

  As Big A waived his hand for a second time, several dots appeared on the hovering virtual battlefield. “The metamorph was also kind enough to share with us that a security team of beasties will be the first to pass through the gateway.”

  “Gothen?” Tango asked.

  “Aye. Most likely varangian,” Abernethy replied. “Although I wouldn’t rule out any combination of other nasties. Regardless, he said to expect at least four of them. Two of the scunners will guard the portal. The rest will conduct a sweep of the immediate area. Only after they’re satisfied that the location is secured will they bring the anakim pack through. At which time, two guards will remain at the gateway, and the rest of the lot will carry on to the feeding site.”

  “How many anakim are we talking about?” Asked Caveman.

  “According to Skip — between ten and twenty,” Rooster replied. “The more rural the area, the more they let out to play.”

  Casually hawking a wad of tobacco juice into his trusty plastic spittoon, Coop said, “We gonna ambush the biggins as soon as they clear the gate?”

  “Nae,” Big A replied. “The raiding party will be allowed to continue to the feeding site.” Pointing to the map, he said, “Which we believe to be this farm — two miles northeast of the portal.”

  “We’re going to let them go?” Asked Tango sharply.

  “Aye, we are. For they’re not our objective,” said Big A with conviction. “Berko and his Deacons will deal with the bastarts.”

  “Because we’re going into the shadow realm,” I muttered somewhat rhetorically putting two and two together.

  A wolfish grin stretched across Abernethy’s face. “We’re going to pay Azazel and his lads a wee visit. A visit he’ll not likely forget. It’s a job for a thousand —”

  “Or a job for a few,” Rooster said completing the thought. He squinted pensively. “We’re gonna need the Dragonfly.”

  “Aye, Jackie. We’re gonna need the Dragonfly. You’ve less than thirty-one hours to make the bloody thing work.”

  As his eyes flashed a blazing red for a quick second, Rooster assuredly replied, “That’s thirty more hours than I need.”

  “Coffee? Food?” Rooster asked as I plopped down on what was coming to be known as ‘The New Guy’s’ stool at the Quartermaster bar. Decked out in a black tactical uniform similar to mine, he was sporting his full compliment of firearms and cutlery. Although he was amicable, there was a noticeable sternness about him.

  “Hells Yes,” I grunted glancing at the small antique clock hanging next to the row of wooden kegs lining the wall to Rooster’s back. It was closing in on eleven P.M.

  “We’ve got ten minutes to be in the Reliquary for final prep and deployment,” Rooster reminded me as he slid a plate of tasty morsels across the bar. “You and Big A been in the Dreghorn this whole time?”

  Making the mental note that I truly hoped never to lay eyes on the otherworldly training facility again for the rest of my undead life, I grumbled, “Yep. Time really flies when a centuries old Scotsman is all up in your grill.”

  As the rest of the crew spent the past thirty-odd hours prepping for Operation Trap Door, I had the pleasure of spending some quality time with Abernethy being schooled on some of the finer points of the Deacon’s mantle. Although I was still somewhat of a blunt instrument, I had a couple new tricks up my sleeve — or cloak as it were.

  He chuckled. “So you good to go?”

  “Good as I’m gonna be. Let’s hope it’s good enough. The big guy seems to be satisfied that I’m mission capable … Or at the very least — he’s satisfied that I’m not going to accidentally fry him with a ball of fire.”

  “So you made some progress then?”

  “If you measure progress by how many times I reduced the Dreghorn to ash — then Yes — I made some progress,” I muttered. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing I have the thunder stick.”

  “Gotcha,” he said realizing it was a touchy subject. “You’ll be fine. Trust in your ability. We do.”

  Shooting him a grateful nod, I turned attention to my plate as my mouth watered like a faucet from the overpowering aroma hitting my nostrils. “Thanks for the steak. Think I could eat a whole cow at the moment.”

  Scoffing, he quickly replied, “Not just a mere steak, my friend. That’s an aged filet mignon garnished with asparagus drizzled in Rooster hollandaise sauce. Cooked a perfect medium rare. Which, if I’m not mistaken, is your preference.”

  Still amazed at just how much these guys knew about me, I said, “In my file?”

  “In your file.”

  Shrugging it off, I cut a man-sized chunk and happily tossed it in my mouth. “How about you? The realm buster all squared away?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” he replied glancing at what appeared to be a jumbled Rubik’s C
ube sitting on top of the bar to my immediate right. “The Dragonfly’s ready for action.”

  Thinking it was so incredibly ‘Roosteresque’ to create a weapon of mass destruction out of a toy, I reached out to grab it and take a closer look.

  Grabbing my hand, he said, “Yeah … Might be better to look and not touch.”

  “Is that a frigg’n Rubik’s Cube?” I asked pulling my hand back.

  “Maybe.”

  “You turned a kid’s toy into an apocalyptic bomb? Really?”

  “Of course not,” he scoffed. “I turned a kid’s toy into a complex arming and trigger device. Actually thought it was pretty clever.”

  “So the bomb’s inside?”

  “Yeppers,” he replied. “And it’s not a bomb. It’s a quantum destabilizer mechanism fueled by concentrated Gehenna fire and a smidge of nonbaryonic dark matter. The whole system’s no bigger than a marble.”

  As I stood gawking, he added, “And for the record — a Rubik’s Cube is not a kid’s toy. It’s an engineering marvel of logic and reason.”

  “Right,” I muttered. “Why can’t I touch it?”

  “Technically you can touch it. But an intense blast of Gehenna fire could inadvertently trigger the Dragonfly, and you’re not exactly known for your —”

  “Fair enough,” I grunted. “Say no more.”

  Snatching my coffee and glancing at the clock, I said, “Grab your stocking stuffer and let’s go. The others will be waiting. It’s go-time.”

  This time when we rolled up on the Reliquary the typical chaotic bustle was replaced by a palpable calm. There was a nervous excitement in the air, but the clerics and acolytes manning the various battle stations circling the rotunda were all about business. Cool professionals. The plan was set. It was time to execute.

  “Bout time you girls showed up,” barked Stoner looking down on us from the Command Bridge looming high above the floor.

  “Who invited Mr. Wizard?”

  “We need a magus,” Rooster said heading up the spiral stairs.

  “Didn’t realize we’d be breaching any wards,” I said chasing after him.